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I woke up early this morning knowing what kind of novel I want to write for this National Novel Writing Contest. I don't have a clue how or even if I'm going to do it. I'm still trying to figure out what to send these people as far as the writing itself goes. For all I know they're a bunch of hustlers wanting me to give them a story they can make money off of. I ran into that kind of people when I entered a poetry contest and found out it was a sham. On the other hand, if I wrote something good enough to steal there would be a certain satisfaction in that.
I am beginning already to hate the very idea of trying to put together a storyline of some kind. Since I don't know anybody but the person I make myself out to be I guess I'll have to develop a persona for the first person speaker who tells the story. If I can do that much by entering this contest it will be worth it. It might not be as difficult for me as I'm hyping it up to be, I made up felix from next to nothing. Of course, felix is forty years old now. Maybe this contest is his middle-age crisis.
I've lost the remote control for my TV set. It disturbs me to no end. I must have spent at least three or four hours looking for it. I rearranged my computer space. I put some shelving where my desk sat and move my desk further west by the same amount. This is a much better way than how I had it because the location of my computer desk was too close to the outside door. As usual, the first thing I think of is that somebody snuck into my house when I wasn't here and took it as revenge for some despicable deed I never done.
Since I went to that reunion luncheon with my high school classmates and noticed their reaction to me in a different light I've been wondering if their response to me is what controls my behavior toward them, and others, in general. I'm still contemplating that description of a certain type of person I heard on TV. "You know, he's like that kid in high school that everybody liked because he argued with the teachers."
My mild-mannered brother-in-law who IS a retired high school teacher and tennis buff screwed up and made the only negative remark about me I had ever heard him say. He told my mother (another retired teacher, now deceased) that he felt lucky he had never had to deal with a student like me. Oddly, my own mother agreed with him.
Her admission surprised me since she was the type of person (along with my father, also a public school teacher) who brought her work home with her, thus not only had she had to deal with me, but raised me to be that way. Maybe she and my father raised me to be that way, but I'm pretty much of a self-made asshole of the sort who refused their advise and made mockery of their so-called wisdom. Whatta guy... eh?
I know this about myself. How could I not? It's been a constant accusation since I swapped for this body with it's first owner. The crazy thing about it is that they all loved me for being that way with them. I don't mean to say they liked the way I acted, particularly if they were the authority I ridiculed, but they seem to love that there is someone around who will do what they afraid to do, even if that makes them the brunt of the joke.
Too bad I didn't understand all this when I was in high school. It probably wouldn't have made any difference. I wouldn't have or simply didn't know how to parley this loveable bad-boy careactor into getting them to have sex with me. It didn't happen. I was a virgin when I joined the Navy. Being a virgin was probably the reason I joined the Navy. Granted, I did join the Navy to see the world, doing it to lose my virginity was my true purpose.
I didn't argue with the teachers to be seen as a "bad boy" to attract the girls. For me there wasn't a clue the way I behaved made me attractive to the young girls. Around the time of puberty I began to realize that all adults were hypocrites. They expected me to follow the rules they ignored but gave lip service to. I became highly indignant about this, and not only argued with my teachers to gainsay their hypocrisy, but to call them out and out liars.
How could I have known when I was a kid that I was projecting and accusing them of being what I thought I was for having listened to such liars in the first place? With my current question being, did I somehow unconciously know that people secretly loved me for being brazen and arrogant? Was I brazen and arrogant only to gain their warm feelings toward me? Am I still doing that? I'd love it if it is true. Whatta way to go! 889
I read a bulletin or outline at the web site for this National Novel Month thingamajig that the entrant writers need to write 1,667 words a day to make the 50,000 word goal. I hadn't done the math to come up with the exact number yet, but I had figured in general to be upward of 1,500 words a day.
The word counter AppleScript script I'm using to count the words I write in TextEdit (the word editor that comes with the Mac operating system) has really put me on notice that my assumption that I wrote that much everyday of the week anyway wasn't realistic.
Sometime, when I might get on a roll, my word count per day might be 3,000 words or more if I counted the e-mails I composed in order to participate in the e-mail discussion groups I once belonged to. Usually, however, particularly on the blogs I write for, I just write until I ran outta something to say. The word counter script brings hard-core numbers to bear on what's wot.
The contest begins just after midnight Sunday night. Thats less than two days away. I didn't think I would get this nervous and jittery about this silly contest. I think the only prize is a t-shirt that everyone who finishes gets. The only real contest is the one each writer has with themselves.
I got no excuse for not doing this except for sheer cowardice. I've provided myself with the tools for creating believable careactors all my adult life. I could make a natal astrology chart for each character and have them react to all stimuli just like a real person. It makes me want my mommy. Bitch left me here alone, and neither of my ex-wives would become her just to help me be strong enough to write. 1200
I don't really wanna use the people I swore to remain faithful to for the rest of my life. I lied like a dog to both of them without a clue that what I told them was, in fact, lies. Okay, maybe I was a little suspicious that I was lying. Lying like I always lie because I don't always know the truth of how I feel, and even if I do, I don't have a prayer of it remaining true any longer than it takes for another lie to take its place. I've always been , incurably, and irrefutably curious about the next best thing.
My remembering vision should provide me with all sorts of descriptors about my careactor's character. Whether or not I'll be able to employ what I experienced throughout my evolution from pearl to homo sapiens might be considered sacrilegious or not to universal truth is yet to be seen. The only real writers I've known in person have murdered themselves whether the coroner agreed with that or no. There are not many people who have known me for long that don't think I'll end up killing myself. I know why, but that doesn't change my fate, but their own. What a drag, man.
If I decide not to use astrology to fill out the form of the careactors I employ, then I can always turn to the metaphors and sayings I studied for over thirty years in the Wilhelm/Baynes translation of the I Ching. There again. the question of blasphemy comes into play. I can't use these things as freely as it might seem like I do.
There are limits I seem forced to observe. I can't know ahead of time what they are. Maybe these limits exists because I need to think I have some sort of morals and ethics. Not that I really do, of course, but I like to pretend I do for the sake of the other. The problem seems to be that I actually don't invest emotionally in other people.
If I were to re-read the stuff I've written in the past (it ain't gwine happen) it might be clear as a bell why I suspect I'm more than a little autistic. I feel like Pinocchio more often than is comfortable for me. I feel like a wooden toy I created myself who wants to be a real boy with feelings and everything, but there are times when I know there ain't a chance in hell.
Even when I majored in Drama and Speech and had lots of required courses in acting I merely acted like I was acting when it was just something to do in order to make at least a "B" in my major area of study. Sometime I sense that I didn't take the only course I needed to get a degree because I was a fraud. I only acted like I was a real actor, and it was that phony who took a bow and smiled at the rave reviews as if I knew a secret. 1713
I'm a little afraid of what's gonna come out when I'm writing just to reach a minimum word count, but on the other hand, that's kinda why I'm doing this contest thing. So, what's new? Double bind. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Selah
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I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
